if all we had was each other we'd have enough
by russelia
Summary: ONE DIRECTION. He never planned on falling in love, nobody ever plans on falling in love. Harry/Louis.


He sits on the edge of the bridge and looks down with tired eyes, the wind playing with his hair and a hand tugging at his collar.

His suit is too tight against his body and he can't breathe, can't move his arms the way he wants to, and it feels like he's in his own little coffin, too. But it's not a coffin—not really—because when he loosens his tie, the feelings rush back in and air pushes out of his lungs like he's never breathed a day in his life, and he wishes it were that easy, wishes that everything would go back to the way they were with something as rudimentary as loosening a tie. Wishes that loosening Louis's tie would open his eyes and bring him back to life.

He picks up a pebble next to him and throws it down into the rocky ditch below. He doesn't know why he came, why he stopped there of all places. He told Liam he'd forgotten something at his flat and he'd be back in time for the service, and the next thing he knew, his feet are dragging him along the bridge like it's second nature to them, like he's walked the same bridge every single day. Maybe he's looking for something—some form of closure, something to fill the dark emptiness Louis took with him, probably even Louis himself and that it's just all a cruel prank and he's going to pop out behind him any second and scream _"Got you!"_ and give him a hug and a kiss because he scared him half to death and _how can you do this to me_—but there's nothing. Just him and a few rocks below his feet.

The wind is getting stronger and he wraps his arms around his shoulders, and for a moment, he feels a hand sitting right under his (weightless and cold, but a hand nonetheless). He looks at his shoulder and of course there's nothing there, there's never anything there, just the seam of his suit. He looks around and finds the place empty—no cars, no animals, no people—and it's been like this ever since it happened. Dropping his arms, he looks over the horizon and watches the trees swaying in the breeze, and the loud rustling of leaves makes the soft, steady footsteps behind him go unnoticed. Then there's a hand on his shoulder again, but it's heavy this time, giving him a soft squeeze, and he looks up to see Liam with somber eyes.

"Come on, Harry. Everyone's waiting."

He helps Harry to his feet and there's movement behind Liam. It's probably just the wind carrying leaves or his mind's playing tricks on him again, but he swears he'd seen the familiar flash of Louis's smile before vanishing into the air as quickly as it came.

::

"Harry, what are you doing?"

There's surprise and confusion in Louis's voice and it makes Harry's smile crack wider into a grin, and he grips Louis's hand tighter.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Louis's eyes shift uneasily and he makes a move to pull his hand back, but Harry keeps his grip firm and strong and ignores all the hushed tones of gossip and wonder filling the air around the mall. They've been going out for a solid month and he couldn't help himself, felt like it was something that needed to be done. At first, it was the slight brushing of hands, quick touching of fingers, chaining of pinkies he managed once that lasted too short, ended too fast because his heart's only starting to race and he wants—_needs_ the feeling of Louis's skin against his.

"Harry, you can't," Louis pleads softly but he doesn't make another move to free himself, and Harry can just see from the corners of his eyes the smile stretching Louis's lips.

"I can and I will," Harry says, rubbing his thumb against a knuckle. People are looking now, judgment prickling his skin, and it only makes his grip tighter, pulls Louis close until their shoulders are touching and he can smell the faint scent of Louis's cologne and it takes him away from everyone, from everything and it's just him and Louis walking down the mall holding hands like everyone else and _why do we have to be any different_.

::

The fight lasts for two days and Harry locks himself in his room until the feeling subsides, ignoring the calls from Liam to come out and _it's not your fault_ and he knows it's not, knows that it's all Louis and it's _always_ been Louis's fault. Maybe he's gotten too comfortable living in Harry's life and he knows Harry's willing to do anything for him but _this_. This is why he never should have auditioned, should have just stayed in Holmes Chapel in that bakery so this would never have happened, would have been perfectly content going to school and getting his degree and—

No, he doesn't want that. He loves this life and he loves Liam and Niall and Zayn and the band and performing and touring and going to places he's never even _dreamed_ of going and most of all, he loves Louis. And when Louis comes home that night with his duffel bag he filled up with random articles of clothing because he was too blinded by the anger in his eyes and he wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could, Harry takes him in his arms and whispers _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ in his ear, doesn't want him to leave again because the bed feels too empty, too cold and it makes him think and he doesn't want to think. Louis drops the bag and runs his fingers through his curls and gives him quick pecks on his cheeks, tells him _no it's all my fault I'm sorry Harry_ and he pulls Harry down to the bed, pulls the covers over them while hands searched skin and ripped pieces of clothing and all of a sudden, the bed doesn't feel cold anymore.

::

The first time it happens, he's getting ready for bed.

It's the middle of the night, maybe three o'clock or some ungodly hour because everything's silent and still and he can almost touch the darkness around him, and he doesn't know why it's taken him this long to go to sleep. He does his rituals to make it seem like he's ready to get his life moving forward—brush his teeth, put on his pajama bottoms and pull them back off because he likes the feeling of the mattress against his bare skin, drinks warm milk, stuffs his bracelets in the drawer next to his bed—and climbs into bed, eyes heavy and a yawn pushing its way out of his throat.

He doesn't see it at first, wouldn't have noticed it at all until he drifts off for a few minutes and a loud _thud_ jolts him awake. He looks around his room with wide eyes, heart pumping adrenaline, still surprised, and he stops when he sees the pair of blue eyes glowing on his door.

There could have been a thousand explanations—reflection of the moonlight on his alarm clock, the studs on his belt hanging from a hook on the door—things that made more sense than what his brain is telling him at that moment. He shouldn't have pursued it, let it roll of his shoulders and get back to sleep because he has to wake up early tomorrow for rehearsal and he doesn't want the blame to fall on him again, but they're too striking, too eerie, too _familiar_, and he furiously rubs his eyes and cracks them open to look one more time.

They're not there, probably never were, but there's a knot forming in his stomach and an emptiness growing in his heart, and he slides further down the covers and shuts his eyes, trying to convince himself that he didn't just look into Louis's eyes.

::

He never planned on falling in love, nobody _ever_ plans on falling in love.

It all happens out of nowhere. He's just sitting in the bar nursing the piña colada in his hands like it's the most interesting thing in the world while Zayn chats up girls left and right and Liam's busy texting _I miss you do you miss me_ to Danielle and Niall's elbow-deep in his bowl of spicy nachos with cheese dripping down the sides of his mouth like a wild animal when he sees him practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, blue eyes flashing, star-struck, a ball of energy that can't be contained.

Harry's breath hitches in his throat and his heart almost jumps when Louis makes his way to them, all smiles and spirit, sparks flashing around him like an electric mist and Harry can't seem to take his eyes off him.

"Harry Styles?" he asks, blue eyes clashing with green, and Harry nods and sets his drink down, trying to steady his heartbeat. "You _have_ to give me your autograph!"

Then he's shoving a piece of napkin and a blue pen in Harry's hands and at first he doesn't know what to do, mind shuts off for a second and all he can think of is how good his name sounds coming from his lips. He signs it and gives it to him, hands brushing slightly and Harry's face heats up, watches him look at his signature, eyes brimming with excitement and the unmistakable sparkle of a fan's love for a celebrity, never any attachment, satisfied with admiring from afar.

But with him, it's different somehow, the way he looks at him seems like he's looking into his soul, wants to know who Harry is behind all the fame and fortune and flashing lights and screaming girls and—

No, that's not the case. He's been lonely too long and his mind's playing tricks on him at this point, tells him things that aren't really there, tries to create something out of nothing and all it does is hurt him in the end.

"What's your name?" Harry ventures, not even sure if the sound came from him, and Louis grins and stuffs the napkin in his pocket.

"Louis," he says, giddiness washing over his body so thickly, Harry can see it glistening. Harry says it under his breath and it's smooth on his tongue, rolls from his lips like breathing air. Louis looks around, watches the others go on with what they're doing, and he turns back, grabs a chair behind him, and sits across from Harry. "Everything alright? You don't look like you're having too much fun."

Harry shrugs and takes a sip. "Not really feeling it tonight."

"Well, you look like you need someone to talk to." His voice sounds like bubblegum and he turns around and yells a drink order at the bartender behind him. "I've got time."

Harry feels a smile creeping on his lips and he chuckles, takes another sip because he doesn't know what to do with his hands. "You sure?"

Louis nods, hair falling around his face, the rainbow of laser lights dancing around him making his skin glow.

"For you, I have all night."

That's when it clicks.

::

The third time it happens, they're performing a sold-out show in London, the most unlikely place and circumstance to see a ghost.

Everything's going well—the fans are screaming and Zayn hits all of his notes perfectly and Liam abuses his puppy-dog face because he wants to hear the crowd go crazy and Niall's just being Niall of in his own little world, uncoordinated just like the rest of them, jumping fifty feet into the air and having the time of his life. But Harry. Well, Harry's trying to have fun, trying really hard, but he can't shake off the emptiness, it weighs down on his chest like he's being suffocated and he tries to play it off as catching his breath when he misses his line.

That's when he sees him.

Just a few rows from the front, brown hair waving as he dances and claps, the smile on his face striking a match from under Harry's skin until he feels every inch of his body burning, then there's an emptiness spreading in the pit of his stomach that he can't ignore and he stops moving around, drops his microphone on the ground, eyes fixed on him and brain working overtime to figure out what's going on.

He feels someone grab him by the shoulders and he shakes his head and closes his eyes, shutting out the gasping and screaming and Liam's voice in his ears asking _Harry what's going on what's wrong_.

When he opens them back up, he finds himself looking into the eyes of a girl with short brown hair and realizes it wasn't Louis at all.

He's lying in his coffin a hundred feet in the dirt right under his tombstone where he's supposed to be.

::

Louis snakes his hand across Harry's chest to grab his hand and buries his nose in his curls, inhaling the floral scent of shampoo and brand-new conditioner.

Harry turns his head and meets Louis's gaze, so blue, he can feel himself falling in it, a deep fall with closed walls and no way out and all he has for a lifeline is Louis's hand wrapped in his, warm and soft and inviting, ready to pull him out.

"Sing to me, Harry," he says, dropping his head and resting it on Harry's chest, and Harry chuckles lightly, his other arm finding its way around Louis's shoulder and pushing him closer until he can feel their hearts beating along the same rhythm.

Harry starts to sing and his voice is deep and rough like gravel, a half-step above a whisper, and it cracks in certain places but Louis doesn't mind, only looks at him with those bright eyes like he's the only thing in the room, in the world, and he snuggles closer and draws patterns on his stomach until he slowly drifts off to sleep and Harry's left looking at the ceiling and wishing they can stay like this forever.

::

Harry's always been stubborn.

It's a quality people either really liked or hated, and they figure he can't be _Harry_ without it, and it's helped him get his way more times than he'd care to count.

This time, however, he wishes he wasn't because when the boys sit him down one day and Liam tells him what happened, he can't believe it—_refuses_ to believe it and he jumps to his feet and angrily shoves Liam for making a sick, cruel joke and _why would you joke about something like that it's not funny_. He tries to storm out but Zayn grabs him by the wrist and repeats it firmly to get it through his thick head and Harry's fighting back tears, wrenching Zayn's grip and spouting off a string of curses and it feels like the room's falling apart, the floor's shaking under his feet, and when it dawns on him that Liam's not lying, everything stops.

"Listen to me, Harry. _Harry!_ Louis's _dead_, Harry!"

It's Liam again and his eyes are sad and pleading and Niall jumps in and grabs Harry arms from behind when he tries to lunge at him, eyes blazing with fury and hurt and he wants to make him feel the pain searing his bones because he doesn't want to believe it. _They're lying, all of them_ he tries to convince himself, as if thinking about it enough is going to make it true. Louis is going to come home any second and when he does, he's never going to speak to them again, never wants to hear that word next to Louis's name ever again.

Everything is spinning and Liam's face is starting to blur into circles and lines, and he drops to his knees and there's thick sobs bubbling out of his chest, strong and heavy, and when Liam pulls him into a hug, he balls his shaking hands into fists, and he cries.

"It's not true," he whispers into Liam's hair, and he feels hands rubbing his back. It hurts to talk, hurts to breathe and he doesn't know what to do but smash his fists on his thighs until he can't feel them anymore, but the feelings never really leave and they sting his eyes and rip his heart to shreds.

Liam says something but Harry doesn't hear it, doesn't think anything he says will help at this point, make everything better, because his ears catch a sound behind him that erases every thought in his mind, makes his body numb, makes his heart stop.

He hears the sound of Louis's laugh.

::

Maybe he missed his family and had to run back to Doncaster.

Maybe one of his family members died—his mum, his gran, one of his sisters—someone important enough for him to walk out the door one night while Harry was sleeping and not return the next day. Or the day after. Or two weeks later.

The bed feels achingly empty and performing doesn't distract him as well as before this time, just something he needed to do because he can't leave the boys alone on the stage and have them sing his parts on the songs because he doesn't feel like it. But he can't focus, fumbles with his lines, can't steady his breathing, can't walk around the stage anymore because he can't see Louis standing in the front row clapping his hands raw, screaming his lungs out.

Liam walks in and sits beside him. They don't look at each other; Liam's eyes are trained on his shoes, the tips tapping on the floor; Harry's keeping his attention on the wall, twiddling his fingers because the silence is uncomfortable.

"Any news?"

Harry braces himself and for a moment, he thinks it's different this time, maybe he got ahold of Louis and he's told him he's on his way home and _tell Harry I'm sorry for making him worry_ and he'll be pushing through the doors when he wakes up tomorrow and everything will go back to normal and they'll look back and laugh at how much he worried for nothing.

But he sees Liam shake his head from the corners of his eyes and he can feel his world falling apart at the seams.

"No."

::

First dates are always so awkward.

Harry doesn't know where to put his hands, doesn't know what to say, and his brain's filled with images of flowers and hearts and _how is this boy making me feel like this_.

Most of the time, he just looks at Louis's eyes as he talks about his family back home, about his sisters, about school, about the burger he's just taken a bite of. Louis talks a lot but Harry doesn't mind, is a better listener than he is a talker. He doesn't even know where to start when Louis asks him to talk more about himself—what can he tell him that he doesn't already know?

"I used to work at a bakery," he finally says after mulling over about five hundred things, and Louis leans over, interested.

"Yeah, I've read that somewhere," he says and Harry laughs. Of course he's read it somewhere. "How was it?"

"Normal, I guess," Harry says with a shrug, keeps his smile because Louis is trying and it's hard not to like him. Louis nods, eyes clinging to every word like he can see them pour out of Harry's mouth. "It wasn't the busiest but it was nice. Quiet."

"I bet," Louis says, reaching a hand to steal one of Harry's chips, and Harry steals a bite of his burger. "Do you watch movies?"

"Sometimes," Harry says simply, the way Louis is looking at him making his heart pick up and face flush pink. He takes a deep breath and tells himself to try because Louis has been doing all the work and it makes him look like he's not interested. But he's interested, _really_ interested because looking at Louis makes him feel safe, comfortable, feels like he's home.

He smiles when he thinks of the last movie he watched and goes along with it, to Louis's surprise, and before long, they're talking about movies and television shows and books he's always wanted to read but he never has the time, food they've always wanted to try, which celebrities he's met and which ones he'd love to meet.

It's the first time he's felt relaxed in a long time, free from the stress of practice and sleeping four hours every night before jetting off to cities that always seem to require a great amount of time flying to get there, and when Louis laughs at his jokes and makes him sing in the middle of a clothing store, he finally feels _complete_.

::

They found Louis's body sprawled out among the rocks under the bridge three weeks after he disappeared, his clothes in tatters, bruises marking every inch of his skin, an angry red hole in the back of his head.

Harry almost doesn't come when Liam tells him, doesn't want to accept it yet, still waiting for Louis to burst through the door because that's just how he is, loves to see the reaction on Harry's face when one of his pranks succeed. The sliver of hope is like broken glass lodged in his chest—he wants to pull it out and let the blood spill so he can stop dwelling in what can be and move on but it hurts, hurts like hell when he wraps his fingers around it and he ends up leaving it alone until it festers and spreads, fills his head with images both real and imaginary and he just wants it all to _stop_.

He doesn't remember saying _yes_ and all of a sudden, he's in the car and everyone's quiet, tension filling the car like a thick fog and he wishes someone would say something, _anything_ because the quieter it gets, the more he starts thinking and he doesn't want to think, not anymore. He's been thinking every waking moment of his life ever since he woke up to the empty space beside him and he's tired, tired of waiting, tired of hurting.

He tries to ask Liam who found the body but he can't make it past the first word, the rest caught in a net in his throat and he shakes his head and drops the subject and presses his head against the window, condensation prickling his forehead as he heaves deep sighs of anticipation.

He almost jumps off the bridge so Louis wouldn't be alone.

But Liam's there at the last second, he's always there, hand firm on Harry's shoulder the moment he feels himself swaying, like the wind's calling him down. Everything feels numb and Harry's lost control of his body, his mind stalls, his heart stops.

Liam's hands grip his shoulder when Harry starts tipping forward, hears him call Zayn and Niall over to take him back to the car frantically, and it the last time he sees Louis.

At least, until later that night.

::

"Do you think it's such a good idea?"

Louis's hands are tangled in Harry's hair while they watch a music program on the television, Harry's head resting on his lap on the sofa, eyes feeling heavy, getting ready to sleep. He looks up at those blue eyes and creases his brows.

"What is?"

"This," Louis says, like he's explained it in full detail before and Harry already should know, but when he sees the look on his face, he laughs and adds, "_Us_."

"Why, what's wrong?"

Louis stops playing with his hair and Harry sits up, concerned. He hates when Louis starts talking like this because he doesn't know what's going on in his mind, never knows what's going to come out of his mouth next.

"You don't think it's hurting the band? Being seen in public with me, I mean."

Harry smiles and kisses Louis, long fingers walking on the cushion to close over Louis's hand.

"Why should it matter, Lou?" Harry asks and Louis thinks for a moment, gets his argument ready because Harry's stubborn and it's hard to get through his thick head. "Why should it matter who I'm dating? Why should I care what people think?"

"Harry…" Louis says with a sigh, dropping his shoulders and turning his eyes to the floor. He fidgets with his hands and Harry doesn't like it when Louis isn't smiling, and he tips Louis's head up with a finger on his chin and gives him another kiss.

"I love you and that's all that matters."

Louis fixes his eyes on Harry's and looks at him for a long time before smiling and running a finger through his hair.

"I love you too."

::

The last time it happens, everything's quiet.

He can't hear Niall snoring in the other room or the pitter-patter of Liam's feet when he takes nightly trips around the house because there's always too much going on in his mind.

It's dark, moonlight illuminating a small, insignificant fraction of his room, but it's in this part that he sees Louis standing with his back against the closet doors, dressed in his favorite striped shirt and his ever-present suspenders. His eyes aren't glowing this time but they look like they're coalescing with the light—soft and muted and _distant_ just like the rest of his body.

Harry takes a minute to process everything, to go through in his mind what he's seeing and trying to convince himself that he's not crazy and that Louis has been here the whole time.

He doesn't break eye contact with him, doesn't rub his eyes, doesn't turn away like all the other times.

"_Louis_," he whispers, taking slow, shaky breaths, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the bed, the pain telling him he's not dreaming.

Louis blinks and opens his mouth to say something, and Harry leans forward, almost gets to his feet to run across the room and take him back in his arms where he belongs, not under the earth where it's cold and lonely, not the place for someone like him. But there's only the sound of his laughter filling his ears and his eyes are glowing again. He wishes it would stop.

"_Louis_," he repeats, louder this time, and the laughter in his ears aren't laughter after all, just the breeze wafting through the slightly opened window, but Louis is still standing there unmoving, mouthing something as the rest of his body starts to disappear.

Not again, not this time.

He gets up and walks forward, eyes trained on his lips, trying to figure out what he's saying. It's getting colder and he wraps his arms around his shoulders as his feet shuffle forward. He's not losing Louis again, _can't_ lose him again.

When he gets closer, everything's gone but his lips floating in the air, still mouthing to Harry and he's trying hard to riddle it out, follows every curve, every shape until it's clear to him, so clear he can almost hear it.

"_Move on."_

Then, it's gone, taking what's left of Harry's heart with it.

He stands in the middle of the room for an eternity until Liam finds him, closes the window, and leads him back to the bed. He's saying something, he's _always_ saying something but he can't hear, doesn't want to hear, what happened earlier still playing over and over again in the back of his mind.

It's impossible and he doesn't even want to try—he just _can't_. Can't stop seeing Louis when he opens his eyes in the morning, can't stop trying to convince himself that he's still coming back because he's seen it, seen _him_, he knows Louis wants to come back.

But it's Louis and he can't say no to Louis, never could, no matter what.

Maybe it's going to take time, maybe it'll be tomorrow, next week, next year. Maybe it will never happen, but for Louis, he can _try_.

::

Harry wakes up when Louis shifts in the covers next to him, and he looks down and sees his hands curled around his chest, taking soft, deep breaths.

He doesn't know if it'll work out in the end but he's optimistic, he can feel it in his bones because when he's with Louis, everything _fits_.

It's probably too early to tell, and maybe he shouldn't be dwelling too much in this at seven in the morning because there's still rehearsal and he doesn't want to be late again, but he thinks they can make it.

Most of all, he just wants to stay like this forever.


End file.
